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I drop my gaze. “You don’t have to butter me up. I can take honest criticism.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true. Simple and delicious.”
“I, uh, made dessert too. Again, nothing fancy. Just an old recipe my mother taught me.”
His eyes slide to the little vase of flowers I set up earlier when I was getting the table ready. “If I’d known this was a date, I’d have showered first.”
“I like the smell of your sweat.”
His eyes snap to mine and that’s when I realize I just said that out loud! “I, um… That wasn’t supposed to come out… um, that is… That’s not what I meant to say.”
He just stares at me with that intoxicating gray gaze and a slight smirk. “What did you mean to say?”
“That this is not a date.”
“My mistake,” he rumbles with faint amusement. “The lip gloss and the cleavage-baring dress threw me.”
Instant regret, hot and heavy. What possessed me to choose this dress of all dresses? Sweatpants and oversized t-shirts—that has been my uniform at home and I should have freaking stuck to it. How the hell am I going to segue into a serious conversation now?
I feel dumb. Blindingly obvious, like a little kid playing hide-and-seek without realizing his feet are sticking out from beneath the curtains.
“I just wanted to feel good about myself,” I manage to mumble, somewhat belatedly. “Fake it ‘til you make it, right?”
He drops his fork. “I understand that you’re very pregnant and probably deeply uncomfortable all the time. But trust me, Wren: no woman is more beautiful than you are right now.”
I’m glad I’m sitting down, because if I’d been standing, he definitely would have noticed my legs buckle. “No woman?” I echo. “Surely there’s at least one out there.”
Dmitri is unfazed. “It’s the truth as I see it.”
I’m not gonna lie: it’s exactly what I need to hear. But it’s also the last thing I need to hear. All these compliments are battering down the walls I’ve built, and in the face of those crystal gray eyes, I realize just how weak those walls were to begin with.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I blurt out because I’m honestly tired of the circus in my own head.
He blinks slowly, not answering at first. “I’m treating you the way you deserve to be treated. I’ll admit I wasn’t always a gentleman in the past—but I intend to be now.”
“Why?”
“Do I need an ulterior motive?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
“You don’t trust me, do you?” He clears his throat and sighs. “I can’t exactly blame you for that. I haven’t done anything, especially lately, to earn your trust. But rest assured, I’m being nice because I care about you, Wren. You’re the mother of my child.”
It’s a good speech—but is it a romantic one? Or is it simply a peacemaking tactic? Is he trying to pave the way towards a cohesive and functional co-parenting relationship or are there undertones to his words that mean something more?
I probably should ask, but I’m too damn scared to. Which is why, instead of asking what I really want to—Where the hell do we go from here?—I end up squeaking in a high-pitched, nasally voice, “I’ve got to check on dessert.”
Considering dessert is a no-bake cheesecake, it doesn’t really require much mollycoddling. But I need to concentrate on something that’s not Dmitri for just a minute or two.
So I poke and prod and clank around to distract myself. By the time I go back to my seat, I feel a little more at ease, a little more in control of the situation.
“How was work?” I ask.
He nods. “Fine. We might have a new client who wants us to spearhead the design of his new business space.”
I perk up eagerly. “An interior project. Those are my favorite kind.”
“You always had such extensive notes on those clients.”
